


Apple

by JMA



Series: When your Mountain has worn down to sand, I will rebuild you from clay. [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Time, Honesty, M/M, Missing Scene, Open to remix, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Season/Series Finale, Potentially challenging content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 10:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19227298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JMA/pseuds/JMA
Summary: Truth be told Crowley almost never lied to Aziraphale, and when he did it was mostly by omission. Which was for both of their own good, as their entire friendship teetered on an uncertain and unsteady foundation of things left unsaid.This will not end the way either of them thinks





	Apple

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Яблоко](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20552606) by [bangbangbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangbangbaby/pseuds/bangbangbaby)



> This work has been translated into Russian by the ineffable bangbangbaby!   
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/20552606

Apple.

The sun rose and hard shadow lines moved across the wall. Concrete and crisp. Grey, white and black and oh so very modern.  
Crowley watches the shadows move with an almost eerie detachment. Next to him a being whimpers. Hell knows that there is only so long any being, human or otherwise, can scream at full volume, no matter what the pain.  
By now Heaven knows it too.  
If Crowley was being honest with himself he...

“Would I lie to you?”  
“Yes. You're a demon, that's what you do”

Truth be told Crowley almost never lied to Aziraphale, and when he did it was mostly by omission. Which was for both of their own good, as their entire friendship teetered on an uncertain and unsteady foundation of things left unsaid. Both knew damn well that the wrong word at the wrong time could bring worlds of hurt crashing down on them, so omission was fine. Encouraged, even.

But otherwise he didn't rarely outright lie to Aziraphale, and never, ever lied to himself. Hell never really understood the power of honesty, (trained and trellised like an unruly plant ) just like Heaven never really got the hang of a good, convincing lie. Aziraphale did, almost from the beginning (what with the whole 'misplaced sword' business) and even now lied to himself that getting his worldly body to respond to the stimulus of food was in no way gluttony, even though no Angel was ever designed to eat.

Crowley understood honesty though, and told Eve nothing but the truth to temp her into Knowledge. So Crowley was honest with himself about why he wanted to save the world, and it had less to do with good feeling towards mankind than the nauseating wave of panic that hit him when he realised they were out of time.  
Time, he thought, would always be on his side. It needed to be.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley”

He'd been in the Bentley when Aziraphale had said it, a painful acknowledgement of what was unspoken. So Crowley had grasped the idea of eternity like a life buoy, drank it like fine wine, and comforted himself with the idea that time was all he needed. Well, if he didn't manage to cock it all up in the meantime.

And then they ran out of time. So he was honest with himself about his blatant self-interest regarding the continuation of time. And he'd tried to appeal to the Angel's self-interest in doing the same (all without saying that which was left unsaid. Even though time was ending, there was still plenty left to bugger it all up).

He was honest with himself about why it had hurt when he laid his cards out, offered take them both to Alpha Centuri and was resoundly rejected. Twice.

He was honest about his grief when he walked into the flaming bookshop and knew it was empty in a way mere absence couldn't have explained. Grief, loss, and a fury that he could barely contain within his skin. He never felt more of a demon than he did in that moment. Heaven, Hell and the world between them could all burn and he'd hold the matches, even if he ended up destroyed with it.

Drinks first. He needed it.

“I need a receptive body to inhabit”  
“I'm not even going to go there”  
“Pity I can't inhabit yours. Angel, Demon, we'd probably explode”

Screw it, he would just have to save the world after all.  
And they did.

He felt an odd stillness within himself as they waited for the bus. He should have felt relief, perhaps, as time was on track to flow just as it always had. But instead he felt the same unsteady knot of fear and anticipation that he'd nursed for thousands of years. Now, in the stillness after the end of the world it hummed in his ears like it had in the bombed out church during the war, or in the car with a flask of holy water between them. 

“You can't go back to the bookshop. It burned down, remember?”  
He watched grief and doubt flick over the angel's face. Crowley heard himself, almost at a distance, offer to shelter Aziraphale for the night.  
“My side wouldn't like that”  
And the fear and anticipation threatened to choke him. But it didn't. Instead he said, “You don't have a side any more, neither of us do. We're on our own side” 

They didn't speak the whole ride back, but sat side by side touching at the seams. It should have been some sort of relief, the world had been saved after all. But for Crowley it felt off somehow, as Emily Dickinson had said, the stillness in the air before a storm.  
He was certain Aziraphale felt it too, something rigid in the lines of his body even as he slumped with exhaustion. It was an unpleasant feeling, which intensified the closer they got to his place.

It was as simple this; they had run out of time.

Crowley felt it as a spark of anger quickening through his exhaustion. He'd defied Heaven and Hell to give them more time, wasted the little time that had before the stupid apocalypse trying to prevent it and they'd run out of time anyway because there was absolutely no way their respective sides weren't going to do their damnedest to separate them. And even before, when they had been utterly certain the world was ending it was still too fast for Aziraphale. Under that anger was the very real fear he was wrong. And had been from the beginning.  
The thought rose like bile in his throat as they climbed the stairs. Azirapale put his hand on Crowley's arm and stopped him.  
“If you don't want me to stay I am perfectly fine going elsewhere. I only wish I knew what I have done to upset you.” There was no accusation in it, just gentle concern that made Crowley want to hiss and spit venom.

Crowley was nowhere near as impulsive as he looked. He was, in fact, a careful planner and his devilish machinations almost always favoured the long game. He wasn't the type to jump out of a flash of flames, but worked behind the scenes, placing obstacles and temptations and, on the whole, preferred to let people do much of the work themselves. Unfortunately he had the feeling that his longest game was coming to an end and that nothing he could to could change the course of the evening.  
“It's fine,” he said, “I'm just tired. And I think I need more wine.”

Pouring the wine brought him thinking time as Aziraphale looked nervously around. He'd been there before, obviously, and had admired the plants before becoming horrified at their strict and terrible upbringing. But they usually found themselves at the Park, and, since the birth of the Antichrist, the Bookshop. It suited Aziraphale's more tactile sensibilities; Crowley's place was beautiful, but cold.  
Crowley handed a glass to Aziraphale then leaned against the concrete topped table. All that pouring time produced absolutely nothing of use. The anger from earlier had drained out of him, leaving him closer to the void left in his heart when God withdrew Her love, the loneliness that he had convinced himself Aziraphale could replace.  
“Whatever it is, could you not share some of the burden with me?”  
Crowley couldn't tell if he was being Angel nice, or Aziraphale nice, which was not quite the same thing.  
Crowley took off is sunglasses, folded them up and placed them on the cold grey table.  
“I'm tired of being afraid,” Crowley said, not bothering to keep the weariness out of his voice or eyes.  
Aziraphale, oddly, seemed relieved. “I admit I was concerned that neither side would approve of our...fraternisation”  
Crowley let our a hard laugh.  
“Fraternisation?”  
“Friendship.”  
Crowley put down his wine glass. Aziraphale looked at him with the mixture of surprise,concern and fondness that made Crowley want to strangle him. He grabbed hold a bit of that anger and shaped it into courage.  
“I'm tired of being afraid of you.”  
Aziraphale's eyes widened in shock. “I..whatever for, my dear dear boy. I would never...”  
“You did.”  
Aziraphale still didn't understand. He never understood him, not really.  
“You left me.” Crowley raised a hand to ward off Aziraphale's half voiced objections. “I know why, I get it. I go too fast for you, but we were running out of bloody time!” He hadn't meant to raise his voice, and took a few deep breaths to steady himself. This was it, really, and all that was unsaid was sitting right there under his skin. Of course he was afraid of losing this. When he was cast out of Heaven God's light, Gods love had been firmly cut off. Most demons filled that void with the suffering of others, Crowley had Aziraphale instead.  
And there was every chance he was going to walk out the door. Again.  
You go too fast for me ,Crowley.  
Honesty, then. And exhaustion, and whatever was left over after the world was supposed to end but didn't. He let all his defences fall away, eyes naked and full of emotion.  
Aziraphale put down his wine glass beside Crowley's and took a shaky breath.  
“I...”  
Crowley waited for what seemed like six thousand years and was.  
“My dear,” his Angel said, voice soft and wavering, “I love you.”  
Crowley didn't cry, but it was a damn near thing. Aziraphale looked like a sandcastle being washed away by the tide. Angels weren't meant to love, not like this, but Crowley had always thought him exceptional. He raised his hand to Aziraphale's face and the Angel leaned into his touch, softly trembling. Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment, then caught Crowley's gaze, searching for something Crowley couldn't define. Then, soft as an angel's feather, Aziraphale kissed him.

Aziraphale pulled back and Crowley smiled as though the sun was dawning. So Aziraphale kissed him again.

Angels are sexless. This doesn't mean they are anatomically incorrect, but it does mean that in Heaven Angels (and God) viewed gender as more of a guideline than a rule and on Earth they lacked any kind of earthly desires. And, despite their reputations, the same was true for Demons.

The same was supposed to be true for eating, or fine wine, or for the smell of dusty bookshelves, old parchment and leather. Crowley appreciated aesthetics, as evidenced by his stylish yet frankly uncomfortable home. Aziraphale however has developed a more tactile appreciation for the world. He had woken his body unconsciously and unintentionally and as such his kisses developed an urgency that took Crowley a few moments to fully comprehend. The implications hit him with such force that he pulled away.

Aziraphale was mortified.  
“I'm so sorry” he said, backing away, “ I'll... I'll go. I never meant...”  
“Stop”  
Aziraphale froze, eyes downcast and ashamed.  
“I want this,” Crowley said. Aziraphale looked at him, confused and shocked and hopeful.  
“But..”  
“I want this.” And it was true. He's put up with any physical discomfort to see this through. Crowley ran both hands through Aziraphale's hair and fitted their bodies together in a way that caused Aziraphale to make exactly the same sound that he made when he first tried a macaron. Crowley laughed and held him close.  
“But you aren't..”  
“Does it matter? Crowley asked, “ I want this. I want you.”  
It felt like another knife edge moment. The night seemed to be a series of them, threatening to cut everything to shreds at any moment. As much as Crowley did want this, he'd made his position clear and it was Aziraphale that had to choose.  
There was nothing soft about this kiss.  
Crowley supposed he must have led them to the bedroom, because they were there and he was letting his jacket fall to the floor. He unbuttoned is shirt, leaving Aziraphale to deal with his ridiculous tartan bow and his multitude of layers until there was nothing but skin on skin.  
“Say it again.”  
“I love you”

Crowley grinned through the kisses. Triumph flowed through him and he almost laughed with the joy of it. Aziraphale was smiling like an idiot and they were both soaring with it. It didn't matter that Crowley's body didn't respond the way Aziraphale's did, it was obvious in so may other ways that he was exactly where he wanted to be. Well, almost.  
They were lying side by side, legs entwined, with Aziraphale rutting against is thigh. It was beautiful and absurd and after centuries of watching his Angel slide into hedonism he shouldn't have been surprised they ended up here. Crowley felt as though he was standing at the top of a great glass building, with the past and the future stretched out before and aft. He summoned a bottle of oil from the kitchen and poured some into is hands. Aziraphale's eyes widened and his mouth made a soft 'oh' sound that Crowley kissed out of him. He rolled Aziraphale on top of him and between his legs.  
“Say it.”  
“I love you”

It hurt. Even with the oil it stung and burned. Crowley arched his neck back and hissed and perhaps Aziraphale would have withdrawn if Crowley hadn't hooked his leg up and urged him on. Perhaps he wouldn't have. Either way the Angel knew it hurt and kept going, with Crowley hissing and laughing and practically thrumming with a sort of anticipation that he had expected but underestimated. Aziraphale's breaths were becoming more ragged with each thrust.  
“It was for you,” Crowley panted, “I didn't give a damn about the world ending, just you. It's been all about you for as long as I can remember.”  
He wasn't sure Aziraphale heard him, as far gone as he was, but he pressed is forehead against Crowley's and said, “ I can't imagine being without you”  
Crowley could feel the Angel's body building up to it's release, is own anticipation, his pain, everything that had lead them here.  
“Say it”  
“I love you”  
“Only me?”  
“Yes”  
And the word undid them both.

Aziraphale screamed in absolute agony. Crowley could feel him spill his seed as his whole body went rigid. This sound was despair, absolute and final. Crowley felt it happen.  
A wave of something washed over him, not pleasure exactly, but a sense of completion six thousand years in the making. Aziraphale's screams echoed off Crowley's modern concrete walls, too loud and too brutal for mortal ears. It went on and on and the Demon let it move through him, wave after wave. The Angel's fingers tore blindly at him and still he held on, knowing, feeling and remembering.

Crowley remembered what it was like, the great, terrible, roaring deafening silence.

Aziraphale contorted, his body a rictus of utter despair.

Crowley felt it, as he had felt it every day since he had been cast down. He hadn't been evil, at the beginning. All he did was ask questions. Aziraphale's crimes, such as they were, were worse. Gluttony, Greed, Vanity, Pride, Lust... all paled into comparison before his Great Sin.  
Aziraphale turned his gaze from God.  
And God had shut Her eyes.

Hell wasn't other people. It wasn't lies and evil and hatred. Hell was simply the absence of God.

Crowley leaned over, finally finding his voice. “She's a jealous bitch, isn't She?” he hissed, “Humans. Humans were allowed to chose but not Angels. No, Angels have to love Her and Her alone. And you know what happens to Angels who show Her anything other than full, slavish devotion?”  
He leaned in closer.  
“She doesn't love them anymore, that's what. What greater punishment is there than to be cut off, once and forever, from that Infinite love? She'll love all of Creation until the end of time but not you. You'll never feel it again. Ever. Trust me, I remember”

Aziraphale's scream never wavered, but his eyes flicked over to Crowley's. He was amazed, awed, that in amongst the tidal wave of pain that was the abrupt and final withdrawal of God's love, that there was still room for any feeling at all over Crowley's betrayal.

“You're wrong,” Crowley explained, feeling misjudged, “I was never anything other than what I am”

The look was full of accusation. As though he'd forced Eve to take the Apple.  
“Bullshit. I never forced anyone. I never even lied to them, or you.” He lay back down and reached across to touch Aziraphale's face, gently like a lover. “There's no such thing as free will without choice, Angel. That's all I did. And you had something no other Angel ever has, free will. It took lifetimes to develop, but we did it! Free will!

And you chose, Angel. You chose charming restaurants and theatre shows and music. I watched your face the first time you ate,” Crowley felt his mouth flood with sympathetic sweetness as he remembered how exquisitely beautiful Aziraphale had been. Watching his body come alive in a way that Angels were never designed to be. “You loved the world and you loved me and you chose.”

Aziraphale's screams were running out of steam. Oh, the pain was no less, but his all too human body was giving out and now his throat produced a parched and raw sound that even Hell's best torturers rarely heard. Crowley's blood was almost too loud for his body. Aziraphale's eyes spoke soliloquies. 

“I never lied to you.”

You did, Aziraphale's eyes said, You said you loved me.

But he's never said it, not with words anyhow. Demons can't love, he said. Or tried to. Somehow it got stuck. Instead he settled for a more comfortable truth.  
“You were my project from that very first day. I thought, 'Hey, this'd be a right feather in my cap if I bring down another Angel.' I just didn't know it would take so damn long”

And it had. It had taken thousands of years. And after a while it stopped being about Hell, or Heaven, or anything other than them. Crowley still did his job, but bringing down Aziraphale became is true obsession, the masterpiece that had taken a lifetime. Several lifetimes. It hadn't been easy, but then, would it have been worthwhile if it had been? This had been no mere temptation but craftsmanship; he hadn't so much shaped the angel as provided Aziraphale with the chisel and knives to do it himself. Drinks in the bookshop, dinner at the Ritz, philosophical discussions on park benches and defiance in the face of the Apocalypse.

And now it was done.

After a while the sun rose and hard shadow lines moved across the wall. Concrete and crisp. Grey white and black and oh so very modern.  
Crowley watched the shadows move with an almost eerie detachment. Next to him Aziraphale whimpered. Hell knows that there is only so long any being, human or otherwise, can scream at full volume, no matter what pain.  
By now Heaven knew it too.  
If Crowley was being honest with himself he felt a little numb. 

Perhaps when he's recovered Aziraphale will hate him. Demons can't feel love, but they can feel hatred. And that, at least, will fill the void somewhat.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read it again from the beginning, knowing what you know now, Crowley should be 100% honest still, except, of course, by omission.
> 
> I intend to follow this up. For those of you who are brave enough to read the next one, I promise it ends in a different place.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Apple by JMA](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20998034) by [CompassRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompassRose/pseuds/CompassRose)




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